Chapter 1

Ken Miles could talk the ear off of any man after a race. Doubly so if he won, which he usually did. And the press were happy to accommodate him. Ford had been so scared that he would say something that wasn't considered a part of their brand - and maybe he did - that they kept him on the shortest leash they could find. A leash so short that he wouldn't even get his moment in the spotlight, all eyes on him, recording every criticism he had about the machine that had just won him the race.

Carroll Shelby held no such qualms.

It was almost as satisfying as the win itself; watching Ken talk circles around the reporters for Hot Rod or Motor Life, only to see a watered down version of the interview printed on the page because the poor sap didn't understand cars. Not like Ken does. Nobody understands cars the way that Ken does.

And if he wasn't making a laundry list of the problems he had with their car, he was going after Shelby himself. Caroll just stood to the side, listening to the shit that Ken spewed forth, waiting for the impatient reporters to make their way over to him - the showman - for something they could actually put to print. Nowadays, he just tells them the same thing.

"Ken Miles speaks for Miles-Shelby Automotive, and I stand by whatever horrible thing he's told you about our car, or me."

Each time he told them this, Carroll would let his eyes find Ken's. Ken's eyes, which were always looking for his, were still burning with the intense heat he got from racing. And he'd hold his gaze. His own cool and steady, Ken's, in some way, itching for the moment to pass. Because Ken knew he couldn't be the first one to break it. It was just something he could never bring himself to do, even when a dozen people were pressing him for comment, or trying to push flowers or a trophy into his trembling hands. There was just something about the steadiness that Shel's eyes lent him. Like he alone could bring the seafloor up to meet him when Ken was drowning.

The trembling in his hands stopped, and Shel looked away.

It takes maybe fifteen minutes for the post-race press to dissipate. By now, the pit crew have dispersed, and soon it's just Ken, Shel, and the racetrack.

These quiet moments were plentiful at the start of their partnership. Just a driver (well, not just a driver) and the man who gave him the wings he needed to fly. They used to grab a couple of beers and perch themselves on the boot of the car, watching as the racetrack settled around them. Listened to the way the grandstands groaned as they straightened their backs, and let the smell of their sweat mingle with the scent of burnt rubber and fuel. They'd watch the world pass them by, neither of them speaking, though Carroll suspected Ken would be bursting with suggestions for upgrades or improvements. Each race was just another testing ground for the man. Sometimes, Carroll wondered if he'd leave when he realised that his search for the perfect car was ultimately futile.

But now, as the quiet started to creep up on them, Carroll shoved his hands into the pockets of his bomber jacket, as he often did now. It was a silent acknowledgement, or denial. Ken hadn't figured out which it really was yet.

I can trust you, but I can't trust myself.

Silence stretched between them. The fire in Ken's eyes had all but burned out, leaving just a simmer of the heat behind. Carroll, for once, looked unsure. And when he saw the recognition of this in Ken's eyes, he slipped those signature shades back onto his face. "Well," He starts.

"You remember Daytona?" Ken asks abruptly.

"Daytona?" Carroll repeats, "Like the Daytona 500 Daytona? The race that kicks off the entire season?" Now he's being cheeky. He can hide his eyes, but that smirk pulling at his lips gives him away, "Yeah, I've heard about it."

Ken steps forward. The trophy that had been pushed into his hands for photos got taken away by some racing official - who then carried it off to get Ken's name engraved into the brass placard fixed to the base - but he still held a showy bouquet of flowers in his hands. He turns the bouquet over in his hands. They've all started looking the same to him now. "How long ago was that now?"

Carroll licks his lips and squints at Ken. "Seven? months ago?" He says slowly.

"Hm," Ken hums, "Feels longer to me."

This causes Carroll to tilt his head to the side. The thing about Carroll Shelby is that he works best when he's in control of the situation. If he didn't have control, he usually knew how to take it away from whoever was holding it. But Ken? Ken didn't hold onto the control. He held it out in his hand, waiting for Carroll to take it.

He couldn't.

So Carroll just stands there, waiting for Ken to move this along. His hands curl into clammy fists in his pockets.

"We haven't talked," Ken tells him, "Since then."

The whole world shrinks around them, enveloping them in a quiet embrace.

All of the spectators had cleared out of the grandstands. The pit crews had all taken the racecars away, carting them to their various workshops to prepare them for the next race. All of the press moved on, filtering into seedy hotels to type up and mail out their reports to meet all of their little deadlines. For the first time in seven months, they were alone.

Carroll purses his lips, feels the air on his top lip as he releases the breath he's been holding through his nose. His toes dig into the soles of his shoes, shoulders rising towards his ears. When he takes another breath, it floods his lungs, short and sharp. The muscle in his jaw twitches.

Carroll opens his mouth to speak.

"You know what?" Ken says suddenly, eyes fixed on Shel, "Forget about it." He gives a sort of quasi-smile that doesn't meet his eyes. "I've gotta shower, and kick Phil's ass about that bloody sticky gearbox."

As Ken turns to walk away, Carroll's mouth closes. He frowns.

What the fuck was that about?